14th Century Poems

from Madhura Vijayam

In honor of Ganesh Chaturthi, we present this work by one of India’s most vivid poets.

Gangadevi
Indian
14th Century

 

O King! The city, which is called Madhurapuri for its honeyed loveliness, has now become the city of cruel beasts; it now lives up to its earlier name of Vyaghrapuri, the city of tigers because humans don’t dwell there anymore.

Those temples of Gods, which used to reverberate with the sacred melody of the mridangam, now echo the dreadful howls of jackals.

In the Brahmin Quarters Agraharams of our city, huge columns of smoke emanating from the scared Yagnas used to rise up and reach the skies amid the sacred Vedic chants but alas! today those selfsame Quarters send up wretched stenches of meat roasted by the Turushkas; the Vedic chants are today replaced by the beastly cacophonies of drunken hoodlums.

During the days of Pandyas, our women used to bathe in river Taamraparni, whose waters turned white from the sandal-paste applied to their breasts. My lord! Now she’s coloured only in red from the currents of blood flowing into her from all the cows slaughtered by its wicked occupiers all over the country.

O King! I cannot bear to look at the countenance of those Dravida ladies who were bounteously endowed with beauty. Ravished horribly by the scourging Turushkas, these delicate women now sport lifeless lips and exhale hot breaths, and their abundant tresses that have come undone are painful to the eyes. I don’t have the words to describe the suffering and dishonour painted on their faces, which know neither redemption nor protection.

from The Iskender-Nama

We present this work in honor of the Turkish holiday, Victory Day.

Taceddin Ahmedi
Turkish
1334 – 1413

 

Up and sing! O anqa-natured nightingale!
High in every business doth thy worth prevail:
Sing! for good the words are that from thee proceed;
Whatsoever thou dost say is prized indeed.
Then, since words to utter thee so well doth suit,
Pity were it surely if thy tongue were mute.
Blow a blast in utt’rance that the Trusted One,
When he hears, ten thousand times may cry: “Well done!”
Up and sing! O bird most holy! up and sing!
Unto us a story fair and beauteous bring.
Let not opportunity slip by, silent there;
Unto us the beauty of each word declare.
Seldom opportunities like this with thee lie;
Sing then, for th’ occasion now is thine, so hie!
Lose not opportunities that thy hand doth find,
For some day full suddenly Death thy tongue shall bind.
Of how many singers, eloquent of words,
Bound have Death and Doom the tongues fast in their cords!
Lose not, then, th’ occasion, but to joy look now,
For one day thy station ‘neath earth seek must thou.
Whilst the tongue yet floweth, now thy words collect;
Them as meaning’s taper ‘midst the feast erect,
That thy words, remaining long time after thee,
To the listeners hearing shall thy record be.
Thy mementoes lustrous biding here behind,
Through them they’ll recall thee, O my soul, to mind.
Those who’ve left mementoes ne’er have died in truth;
Those who’ve left no traces ne’er have lived in sooth.
Surely with this object didst thou come to earth,
That to mind should ever be recalled thy worth.
“May I die not!” say’st thou, one of noble race?
Strive, then, that thou leavest here a name of grace.

Translation by E.J.W. Gibb

What Infinite Providence and Art

We present this work in honor of the 650th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Petrarch
Italian
1304 – 1374

 

What infinite providence and art
He showed in his wonderful mastery,
who created this and the other hemisphere,
and Jupiter far gentler than Mars,

descending to earth to illuminate the page
which had for many years concealed the truth,
taking John from the nets, and Peter,
and making them part of heaven’s kingdom.

It did not please him to be born in Rome,
but in Judea: to exalt humility
to such a supreme state always pleases him;

and now from a little village a sun is given,
such that the place, and nature, praise themselves,
out of which so lovely a lady is born to the world.

Translation by A.S. Kline

East Winds that Melt the Mountain Snow

U T’ak
Korean
1262 – 1342

 

East winds that melt the mountain snow
Come and go, without words.
Blow over my head, young breeze,
Even for a moment, blow.
Would you could blow away the gray hairs
That grow so fast around my ears!

Sticks in one hand,
Branches in another:
I try to block old age with bushes,
And frosty hair with sticks:
But white hair came by a short cut,
Having seen through my devices.

Translation by Peter H. Lee

The Dawn of Esther

Shahin Shirazi
Persian
b. 1300

 

I lay the foundation of this word by naming the One
by the name of the giving almighty, creator of the skies and heavens
creator of what is and what is not, all-knowing of the speech of birds
aware of what is written on an empty board, a flame in the sad hearts of lovers

A flower arising from thorn blossoms, but soon
withers no flower grows in the garden of naught, lest it weeps upon itself

Shahin rise in the middle like a falcon, live like the rook, and not the queen
lay out a pleasant verse from king Ardashir’s deed
seek victory from the all-giving, and bring the divine word to your lips
so the forlorn can see Him, and harvest from the crop of this bond
like the enchanted they weep, ecstatic, intoxicated, and eager
when Hegai saw the king in pursuit of charm
with the courage of a lion he told the tale of Esther

when the tranquil dawn arrives, the stars lose their luster
as one bright flame burns, a hundred other flames fade

what is more pleasant than the kind companion, and how could one live without it?
Life with the beloved companion is greater than eternal life
Esther appears like the morning star, shining bright as the moon and the sun
the eager king sat at his bed, drinking wine in the memory of the moon
intoxicated he fell like a tired stranger at the end of an arduous road
he marveled at the luminecesne of Esther, and praised her beauty
he took his heart’s desire from her beauty, with a bond and an engagement

with whom can I share my heart’s secret, as I wipe my face with my blood
so the king may hear of my condition and free me from this pain
the evil Haman who just arrived through the door
my heart aches from his wrong-doing through day and night
he fights my kind with sharp blades and claws
as Esther revealed the adversary to the king, Ardashir was overcome with anger
“does he not fear me, or does he assume himself king?”
towards Haman’s tribe, they rushed one by one
As they followed Esther’s order, they invaded the enemy

see the seashell, the treasures it holds from the fallen drop of rain
it wears the garment of patience and tolerates the world’s adversary

Translation by Iman Habibi

Ballata

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 710th birthday.

Giovanni Boccaccio
Italian
1313 – 1375

 

I am young and fain to sing
In this happy tide of spring
Of love and many a gentle thing,
I wander through green meadows dight
With blossoms gold and red and white;
Rose by the thorn and lily fair,
Both one and all I do compare
With him who, worshipping my charms,
For aye would fold me in his arms
As one unto his service sworn.
Then, when I find a flower that seems
Like to the object of my dreams,
I gather it and kiss it there,
I flatter it in accents fair,
My heart outpour, my soul stoop down,
Then weave it in a fragrant crown
Among my flaxen locks to wear.
The rapture nature’s floweret gay
Awakes in me doth last alway,
As if I tarried face to face
With him whose true love is my grace;
Thoughts which its fragrancy inspires
I cannot frame to my desires,
My sighs their pilgrimage do trace.
My sights are neither harsh nor sad
As other women’s are, but glad
And tender; in so fond a wise
They seek my love that he replies
By coming hither, and so gives
Delight to her who in him lives
Yet almost wept: “Come, for hope dies.”

Translation by Lorna de Lucchi